remember me
by paradises
Summary: Somebody watches from a distance; a little blond girl, high, perhaps, is standing at the edge, and she's going to jump, isn't she? / or, nobody really is going to remember that little girl from Florida — claire lyons / rip emma


**notes | **rip emma ( elizabeth ) ; ily and i've always looked up to you. this isn't fair — none of this is fair. i can't believe this, i just can't;

**.:remember me:.**  
claire lyons

/

___"Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness."_  
-—**maya angelou**

.

Life doesn't make sense.

In a way, it never has; but it wasn't that way back in the mind of a five year old, little blonde curls tied up in pigtails, her cheeks rosy red; back in those days of innocence and naivete. She sits upon her bed, feeling anything but fine, and looks at her reflection in the mirror, tilting her head slowly to examine every single flaw. And if she can't find one?

Well, she'll have to just look a little harder, or make one — usually, it's the latter. Sometimes, Claire wonders how she's slipped so far, like Alice down a hole, but everything's going to get better, but it's not; everything's only going to get worse from here. And, it's all Westchester's fault, and the fault of four other girls and a queen bee who's determined on making your life a living hell. Well, it turns out that she's succeeded.

Claire takes a deep breath, and closes her computer screen — because everybody hates her, and glossy eyes skim across a room. Her fingernails, plastered to cotton candy bedsheets are flawless, a recent manicure of course done by a friend that once was true; candy bracelets trail up and down her arm, resting at the bottom of her ankles, grass stains on the backs of her white Keds, once everything that she had ever dreamed of.

That's what it is — the American Dream, tracing itself back to the 1920's, to the very beginnings of time, to the edges of the universe; she turns on the television, and absorbs herself in mindless dramatics, just trying to forget. But she can't. Claire doesn't want to forget; because those were the golden days, they were once the days where she traveled among the stars. Everything was so beautiful. And, she traveled with the best of the lot, flying away in the universe and leaving all of her troubles behind her, but then somebody died, and she had to go back because she isn't going to live forever. Not anymore.

It all starts at the beginning of high school, freshmen year.

Fingers fly over keyboards, stomach fattening from chocolate chip cookies and gummy bears, catching up to her thighs by now; and her elbows run high, skin so fragile, so easily broken, and blood easily flows upon contact with a landline. It flows into the water, evaporating almost as quickly as it is formed, and everything is absorbed and Claire keeps on pushing forwards. Her hair, limp and wet, leaves marks upon a red sweater, itchy and wool.

Remarks are made about Ugly Sweater Day not being today, and in a way, Claire just wishes she could turn everything; perhaps going to the very beginnings of all these dramatics, in seventh grade, when she had originally come to Westchester. Walking up a flight of staircase, and not so effortlessly dodging an oncoming group of seniors running from their lockers to the freedom of fresh air, she trips; instead of people helping her, they just walk away, some trampling on her stuff, and she loses everything, in a way, down that very staircase, and when she looks up, everything's gone; taken.

Everything good in life must come to an end, after all.

Up the staircase she goes; the bell rings in a far distance, and Claire tries not to grimace at the alarming rate of crowds, and walks quickly; memory strikes her as she remembers tripping up staircases, falling and hitting her head, a pool of blood spilling but nobody cares, do they, darling?; trying to keep a steady beat and a small smile on her face. Nevertheless, she's never been that good at hiding her inner emotions.

But, she's mastered the art, being in Westchester for two and a half years already; there's no room for reality, unless she could become suddenly absolutely gorgeous and have a real personality and opinion, and be naturally charismatic. But, no. She's Claire Lyons, and there's only room for one alpha on the Upper East Side; she makes her way to the room, and sits down, fatigue and a sharp jolt of pain riding up the sides of her legs.

.

Something's different this time; it might be the fact that she's never had a real relationship before, but right now, standing in the deserted hallway of some cracker factory, Claire knows that this is wrong. Derrick's smoking another pack of cigarettes, throwing an ashtray onto the floor, washing it skid, laughing a little; Claire couldn't help the rude thoughts forming in her mind. This game, she knew, wasn't going to end very well; she's an ice maiden, and well, he's just this loser freak who sits on the sidelines with the rest of the druggies, but she had to do it. It was a Dare. And Claire Lyons never backed down from one of those, no matter how horrible it was. Oh, the things that she did for a reputation. After a while, it's different again, because she thinks that she's actually falling in love with Derrick Harrington and all his funny little quirks.

But that was had made Massie hate Claire; and Claire's the only person that knows. And if Claire ever speaks to Derrick again? She'll be ruined. And if Meena and Heather could talk to Massie, they would leave her; they soon do. It's just part of Massie's charm, to ruin Claire's life. Isn't it all so beautiful, darling?

She examines her face in the reflection of her phone, a stolen gift, and thinks about the life that passes her by; and she's not good enough. In a way, people have been telling her all sorts of things; that Massie isn't friends with her anymore because she's too nice of a person, because she's too obsessive about her grades, just because she's Claire Lyons, that horrible girl that nobody really likes, not even one. People start filing through the doors, slowly and surely, and Claire stares down at the way that these pants, which used to be baggy, fit tightly around her legs; even her own mother called her fat the day previously.

Claire vows to never eat again; or, at least to cut down her consumption of unhealthy calories.

.

The promise is broken the very next day; of course, promises are made to be broken.

She's sitting in front of a screen, mindless sounds zooming through her ears, the promises of homework, piles of papers surrounding her, stacks of assignments hastily filled in, because they only remind her that she's on a spiral, and Claire doesn't want to know the truth; she just wants to escape reality, to be a princess for just one night, to escape all of the dramatics, and she remembers an invitation in the bottom of a dresser.

Claire ends up spending the next three hours, throwing all of her clothes — from the time that she was four, but nothing belongs for a thirteen year old, nothing in this closet anymore; vials of assorted liquids fill the top of her dresser, and she quickly hides dolls, ducks, maps of places that she's been to, and of course, that picture of her in her old life, but that's not her anymore. She's not happy, anymore; and perhaps, she'll never be happy anymore. Westchester has killed the little innocent girl named Claire Lyons and replaced it with a girl who's constantly critical, and always wanting to be better.

(But, darling, you know that you'll never be good enough, right? You're just going to drive yourself to the piece of insanity in the drive.)

She ends up pulling out the old sewing machine; dust still collects, and the hours pile on, and she thinks that she's dead, but there's suddenly a ladder outside of her door, and her parents have become assimilated with Westchester, part of the mainstream island, and they wouldn't care. Nevertheless, Claire climbs out, and tears one side of her dress, creating a narrow slit, on brambles of a bush.

There's a train, and Claire climbs aboard; but she can't help but think what would happen if she ran away for real; for real, and never came back to her home. Maybe if it was two years ago, she would still think that her parents would care about it, but now? She could run away, forever and forever, and nobody would care. Sometimes on that train, she thinks that she could run away, she should. But, she can't. Because deep down, there's innocent little Claire who still believes that somebody would miss her; but, darling, by the time you're in high school, innocence becomes stupidity.

She walks off roads, and into trains; and there's a small pill in her hands, a piece of colored paper on her tongue, bitter and harsh, but then she sees all of the little lights, and becomes a bird, and it's all going to be okay.

(There's the steady beating of the drums, penetrating their earlobes as they lay together, delirious heartbeats blending into one. She is fire, he is ice. There are constant splashes, as the fire is put out; after a while, it's just in vain, and the two of them give up. It is night, now, and they are restless, as they all know what's coming; the two of them are never going to change, never be the perfect rainbow that their parents had wanted; it started long before then. Checking that the coast is clear, they keep holding hands, walking through the dust, leaving the ashes behind as they make themselves new, knowing that the night won't last much longer.)

Once she becomes a bird, in the blur of lace, satin, and tuxedos, that reminds her all of more of a wedding, that this life isn't all that bad. Sweeping across the floor, mixing golds with silvers, savoury majorelle blues with alizarin crimson reds —she is standing at the top of the staircase, her lips pursed together as she stumbles down onto the ground, obviously intoxicated with some sort of drink; tinkles of delicate laughter light up the room. She is a princess, a primadonna girl, in her own right, if we could all forget. Night comes, and perhaps this is her time to shine. She spins endlessly around the room, her dress flapping in the wind, a chill coming in from an open door, her blonde ringlets falling out of her crown as she takes no time to pause, obviously, the most energetic individual in the room.

(And, like it's a cycle, they party all night, dance upon the edge of the social hierarchy tabletops, cleanse ourselves, rinse, and repeat.)

She can't help but smile, and there's nothing wrong in this beautiful world. Claire climbs up the staircases, and the blood starts flowing, and suddenly she's a bird, and Claire's going to fly. Somebody watches from a distance; a little blond girl, high on drugs, perhaps, is standing at the edge, and she's going to jump, isn't she?

And, now, she's lying on the pavement, glossy eyes finding a pool of blood next to her glossy ringlets of hair, darkened from dye and stains, tangled into a hideous mess. Her fingers lightly skim over the blood, dipping a piece of lined paper, filled with words that were soon torn apart; but she's happy.

She's really happy.


End file.
